


Now We're Here

by deandatsgay (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Bottom Dean, Coercion, Exhibitionism, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Public Sex, SPN Kink Meme, Sam gets off on making Dean uncomfortable, Submissive/Bottom Dean, Top!Sam, Toppy bastard!Sam, Wincest - Freeform, bottom!Dean, dark!Sam, dub-con, kink meme fill, non-con, older!sam, shy!Dean, younger!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/deandatsgay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of Sam wants to smirk, lean back in his chair, spread his legs wide and get Dean flustered and gorgeous on his thighs. Show his beautiful baby brother off to the couple, to everyone (girls, boys, monsters, other hunters) who can't have him, who will never get to touch his too soft skin or taste the pretty, pretty way he cries when says I can’t, Sam, come on, don’t – Sammy, don’t make - .</p><p>The other part of Sam, the stronger part, the part that always wins, just wants Dean. Just Dean, all to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now We're Here

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the spnkink-meme prompt: Age reversal -- Sam is twenty, Dean is sixteen. Sam gets off on making Dean do things he's not comfortable with, and uses his size and strength to punish Dean if he doesn't obey. So when he orders Dean to put a hand down his pants and start pleasuring himself in an alley, where anyone passing could see him, Dean does what he says, despite wanting desperately to say no.
> 
> Title is taken from the song "Started from the Bottom" by Drake because that's what I was listening to when I was writing this. I adore feedback!

There are at least 120, maybe 135, things Sam could blame for the plans swirling lazy and lustful in his mind.

He could blame the whiskey (the a-a-a-a-alcohol). He could blame the way Dean crosses his arms and pouts when Sam changes the radio station from classic rock to 80's, 90's & Today (the way Dean's plush lips smooth down, the way he sneers at hip hop so cutely Sam wants to kiss his nose and devour his little freckles). He could blame the way Dean sings along with the songs he hates, voice purposefully high pitched, because the tunes get stuck in his head and he finds himself mouthing the words and bobbing to the beat (Dean always puts up a fuss, always gives in the end; Sam could blame that, too.)

He should blame the father that dragged him and his baby brother into this, the father that gave Dean a gun at 7-years-old and told Sam to take care of his brother and then got himself killed. (He does blame John, a little, not as much as the man deserves but Sam doesn't have the energy to analyze and hate everything John ever did to them.)

He could blame the life. Days stretching as long as Route 66 and as dark as the nights and monsters they hunted. Empty motels, empty stomachs, empty lives. Loneliness so muscled and bloody it's an honorary Winchester by now.

He could blame Dean. He could blame God or biology for carving something so beautiful and placing it just above where Sam is supposed to touch (but Sam can still reach, even if he has to beat and maim a few demons or people here and there to get there.)

But Sam has always believed in an external locus of control. He has no faith in God, even if he does exist, and if his destiny has been written in the stars he has no qualms about pulling each one of them from the sky.

Dean taught him those things. When their father fell to the floor after selling his soul, whispering to each brother that there would come a time when fate would pull them apart, make them face and destroy each other, Dean had called bull-fucking-crap and refused to leave the side of the only family he had.

He could blame Dean for clinging to him even though he should leave, but he doesn't. It's not a viable reason. Dean isn't capable of abandoning family and Sam can't fault him for it.

The thoughts spreading fever through Sam's skin are all his. There is nothing and no one to blame them on.

Sam watches as his younger brother smiles at a redhead who can't be much older than Dean, can't be old enough to be in a bar (but is pretty and busty and gutsy enough to be in a bar like this.)

Dean used to flirt on purpose: first because he thought it was what boys his age with his smile should do, then because he thought it would make Sam upset, and sometimes Dean still rebelled any way he thought he could. Now Dean tries not to come off too friendly, tries to hide his beauty in John's bulky jacket and lock his easy slide of sensuality inside. Allure saturates his skin, though, drenching his shyest smile to the smirk he sometimes wears. Dean breathes and flirts, speaks and smiles and invites himself into strangers’ beds.

Shifting in his seat, Sam watches the girl run her fingertip over the neck of Dean's beer. Dean smiles a little, soft and boyish, in a move that Dean thinks says, "sorry, but I'm not interested," that Dean thinks is polite and a turn off for anyone slinking around for a one night stand. What it really does is point a fat red dot on Dean's pretty face, a dare for any predator to come and smell the sweet, fresh blood.

Predators like Redhead. Predators like Sam.

Predators like Redhead's...brother, boyfriend, friend, whatever, who comes up to her side and places his hand on the small of her back. Dean tries to grin at the guy like he wasn't chatting Redhead up (he wasn't), but Sam could tell his brother that he doesn't need to worry about those bulging biceps pushing into his throat. The guy's smile only deepens when he really gets a good look at Dean, and he claps his brother on the shoulder in what could be a friendly gesture if the hand didn't linger.

Dean tries to grasp at his bravado, but confusion is clear in his face. Couples have tried to pick Dean up before, and Dean never puts the pieces together until after, when Sam has him on his back or his soft belly and is whispering all the things the couple wanted to do to him while Dean flushes and twists beneath him.

The guy's thumb brushes the edge of Dean's shoulder blade then moves against the soft hair at the base of Dean's neck. Dean straightens so quickly the movement knocks the strange hand from his body completely. Dean's face betrays his quiet rage - he used to be flattered by the come on's, but now it pisses him off, how people think they can just tumble him into their beds - and the sharp discomfort Sam knows is twisting his gut into knots.

Sam has to widen the gait of his knees under the table and take another sip to stop his palm from cupping his cock through his jeans.

Dean scrambles with his own brand of masculine grace from the bar stool. The couple seem shocked; Redhead's eyes are especially wide as Dean ducks away from them. Sam understands their pain: someone so beautiful, so sweet, so seemingly willing, scampering right out of their palms.

Well. Sam doesn't really understand: not in any practical way. Dean's never quiet been able to wriggle free of his hold. But in theory, Sam understands the disappointment and the ache of being so close, of having what you want more than anything sitting practically in your lap, of being able to smell it...only to watch it tumble prettily away.

The couple's eyes drift to Sam's table. Understanding accompanies Redhead's pout; the guy just glares. Part of Sam wants to smirk, lean back in his chair, spread his legs wide and get Dean flustered and gorgeous on his thighs. Show his beautiful baby brother off to the couple, to everyone (girls, boys, monsters, other hunters) who can't have him, who will never get to touch his too soft skin or taste the pretty, pretty way he cries when says I can’t, Sam, come on, don’t – Sammy, don’t make - . 

The other part of Sam, the stronger part, the part that always wins, just wants Dean. Just Dean, all to himself.

Dean tries to hide his embarrassment and discomfort as he shuffles to Sam's table, but they both know Sam saw what happened. They both know exactly how hard the display made him. Only Sam knows how he's going to take care of it, though, and it's the apprehension of the unknown as much as the apprehension of the memories of so many times before that makes Dean shift uncomfortably in his seat.

Dean tries to hide it; he always tries to hide it, and it’s always so sweet Sam can barely sink his teeth in without shivering. He knows how Sam just can’t keep his hands to himself when Dean is squirming in his skin, flushed, checking over his shoulder, ducking his head into the crook of Sam’s neck to hide himself from his own shame. 

It started so simply. Dean was unsure of his own bones in the wake of burning John’s, and Sam had only meant to comfort him, only meant to soothe the discomfort away. But Sam hands would always linger, and his gentle, reassuring kisses would always turn deeper. Now every shift, every squirm, every little glance down as Dean tries desperately to remain in control, speeds Sam’s breathing and sends his blood rushing feverish and furious. 

“You ‘bout ready to head out?” Sam asks when Dean is settled into the bucket back wooden chair.

The first time they went through this, it was two men who had approached Dean, flanking him on either side as they pressed a drink into his hand and smiling when Dean had attempted to slide away. When Dean had finally gotten away and shuffled into the booth beside Sam, he had waited until his brother seemed almost calm again before asking if he was ready to go back to the motel. Dean had whispered yes so quickly he looked embarrassed with himself. He’d been so eager to get away from the depth of the couple’s hungry gazes. Sam hadn’t even made it to the motel; he’d just shoved Dean into the Impala and tasted every smooth, shaking inch of his brother.

Dean doesn’t reply so eagerly anymore. He nods, clenching his jaw so he doesn’t bite his lip and get himself fucked before they get back to the room.

It’s sweet, really, how even after all this time Dean has faith in him. Like somewhere inside of Sam is the type of person who doesn’t get off hardest when his baby brother is flushed red from his ears to his dick and squirming for Sam to stop, for Sam not to make him, for more Sam, please, need more. Sometimes Sam wishes he deserved the faith. But Sam is practical, and wishing for things that will never happen is a waste of the precious time they have.

The exit door is barely falling shut when Sam crowds Dean into the alley and kisses him deep and hungry.

“Fuck, baby,” Sam huffs into the softness of Dean’s cheek. Dean’s face is model sharp since he dropped the baby fat, and Sam can barely keep his lips off those heated cheekbones. “They wanted you so bad. Could practically smell it on them.”

Dean remains tense, still and silent. He barely trembles when Sam nips at his bottom lip.

“They would’ve taken you between them,” Sam continues. His hands move from Dean’s shoulder to his chest. He lets one hand trail Dean’s flat belly. “That girl would’ve wrapped her legs around you while that guy sunk into – ”

Dean, who had been tense and panting softly, goes ramrod straight. Strong fingers dig into Sam’s side. Frowning and annoyed (Dean is still difficult sometimes, but he stopped trying to stop the inevitable a long time ago), Sam tightens his own grip on Dean’s slim hips. 

Drunken laughter spills into the alley, followed by dim light. A group of men are stumbling out the door.

Sam eases the strength of his hands. Dean isn’t fighting; he’s just nervous. A soft smile drifts to Sam’s lips as another jolt of lust hits him.

“Fuckin’ fags,” a gruff voice mutters at the men shuffle inebriated down the alley.

Dean’s breath is still coming quickly, soft, sweet little pants that hit Sam’s face when he runs his nose behind Dean’s ear.

“S’okay,” Sam reassures him. He slides one hand under Dean’s shirt, rubbing his thumb over the silk skin. Dean cuts a quick glance to the group whose boots are still echoing down the alley. “They’re not coming back. It’s okay. They’re not gonna see you taking it in a back alley like a pretty little slut.”

“Sam,” Dean breathes, desperate and sharp. He wants to say no, he wants to say please, beg; he wants to curse Sam, fight him. But he knows none of those things are going to do anything but get him fucked. 

It’s better when Sam is gentler, when Sam doesn’t indulge his love of seeing Dean squirm. When Sam lays Dean out in a motel bed and licks him everywhere, fingers him until Dean, blushing and shamed, begs Sam to just fucking do it already, just – just – please…

Sam kisses Dean again, dipping his tongue deep into his whiskey hot mouth.

“Don’t worry,” he tells his brother, lips moving against his bitten red mouth. “I won’t fuck you here. I won’t turn you around and bend you over and just shove in, let everyone who comes out of the bar hear how desperate you get when you have a cock in your sweet ass. I won’t even let that couple watch.”

“Sam.”

He can’t help but chuckle at the way Dean shifts and looks around the alley, doe-eyed and nervous. 

“Relax baby. Told you I wouldn’t do that.”

Dean takes a moment from his apprehensive survey to narrow his eyes. A few beats pass until finally Dean sighs, sagging into the brick of the bar. “You’re an ass.”

Sam grins, dimples popping, before he makes Dean swallow his mirth.

They kiss lazy and deep and hot for a few minutes. Sam keeps his palm on Dean’s stomach, fingers splayed wide, but other than the occasional gentle caress that makes Dean shiver (Dean melts for slow and sweet, little sensualist that he is) he doesn’t move. He doesn’t slide his hand up to rub the tip of his index finger over Dean’s (hard, it’s got to be with the slight chill of the night and the way Sam is kissing him) nipple; he doesn’t tweak it with his thumb or scratch it lightly with his nails.

It doesn’t take long for Dean to give in and move his tongue in tandem with Sam’s. Clearly Sam isn’t going to let him out of the alley without at least a little action, and no more interruptions allows Dean to ignore his issues and drift into that space that lets him relax into Sam’s touches and respond so sweetly. It used to upset Sam, Dean’s mind wandering places Sam couldn’t follow, but now he looks at is a challenge: what can he do to draw Dean out of that place?

Sam just sinks into the heat of Dean’s mouth moving against his, Dean’s tongue sweeping his lips, Dean’s fingers flexing on his back. Sometimes, when the stars align and Sam is gentle and sweet enough, Dean will run his hands over Sam’s shoulders, will finger Sam’s hair and pull his tongue and cock deeper, will even squeeze Sam’s ass. 

The sky is black tonight, though, and Sam feels all of his hard edges and darkness flooding to the surface.

He slides his hand from Dean's stomach to palm his full cock. They both moan, Dean's a little breathier, quieter, Sam's infinitely hungrier, at the feeling. Dean's tongue stills in his mouth, stuttering like he's tripping over his words. Sam can feel his brother coming back to himself, remembering that Sam is his blood and that they're in a dirty alley where any low life could see them, see Dean hard for his own brother, see Dean pushing his hips into Sam's hands so wanton and gorgeous. 

Sam sucks Dean's bottom lip into his mouth, tongues the cradle while he presses his palm more firmly against the hot bulge in Dean's jeans. When he pulls his mouth away, Dean's eyes are closed tightly and his cheeks are flushed. The play of moonlight on his face contrasts with the sickly yellow streetlight at the other end of the alley. His vulnerability, his softness, is pale and pretty in the moon and his strength shakes in the dim flood of the streetlamp. 

"So fuckin' pretty," Sam breathes into Dean's panting mouth. Dean hates his beauty being called out, always looks like he wants to hide underneath the bed when someone notes it. "My little baby, so pretty for me. So fuckin' hard for me."

"S-Sam," Dean pants, canting his hips away from Sam's palm. His hands shake as they fist the fabric of Sam's shirt. 

"This is for me, right baby?" Sam asks, rubbing firmly. "It's not for that girl, is it? That little girl and her little boyfriend? The ones who wanted to fuck you?"

Dean, who knows better than to ignore a question, shakes his head. "No, you - fuck you, asshole, you know I'm not - not."

Sam smiles when Dean trails off. He's popping the button of Dean's pants with his thumb, nuzzling Dean's throat as his baby brother's head falls back. "You sure? You sure you didn't think about it? She was so hot for you, probably wet already, just thinking about getting your mouth on her. You know that's what she wanted, right? Your tongue on her tits, in her cunt, while that boy of hers sunk his dick in your ass. He was probably leaking to get in you already." 

Dean tries to shake his head, chin brushing against Sam's forehead. It's too much for Dean, all the filth Sam spews, especially about what other people want from him. Before he understood what Sam's bulk and height meant, what it could do, Dean used to tell him to shut his fucking mouth. Then he used to beg him to please stop saying those things, it made him so, so uncomfortable. Then he tried not to listen, so Sam spoke the words with his teeth in Dean's thighs. Now Dean just shakes: his head, his skin, his muscles. 

"It didn't turn you on?" Sam asks. He knows the answer, and it's the only reason he can taunt his brother. "That's not why you're so hard? You're not hard for them, at the thought of them fucking you? You're not hard for a fat new cock in your throat? You're not hard for that girl riding you while that boy stuffs your ass full?" When Dean doesn't answer, Sam increases the pressure on his erection.

"No," Dean pants, breathless and helpless, looking so uncomfortable he might cry. 

Sam wants to be inside of him so badly, but he'll wait until they're back at the room (at least until they're back at the car.) 

"What is this then?" Sam kisses Dean's throat. "Come on, baby, tell me. Who are you so hard for? Who are you always hard for?"

It takes a moment, but Dean answers. "You," he says. "You, Sam, Sammy, only - only ever for you."

"My pretty baby," Sam breathes. "Such a good boy for me. You are a good boy, aren't you, baby?" Dean nods; he knows better than to stay silent and still.

"You gonna keep being good for me?" Dean nods again. "Course you are. So sweet for me."

Then Sam steps away. 

Dean nearly falls without the oppressive heat of Sam against him. He catches himself, putting his palms against the damp brick. His eyes shoot demon killing bullets when Sam smirks at him. 

"I want you to get yourself off for me."

Dean swallows hard. He glances around, sees the alley is empty aside from his older brother. He almost bites his lip in nervous habit, but manages to stop himself. "Here?" he asks, needlessly. It's obvious what Sam wants it, and it's obvious that Dean is going to give it to him. 

"Yeah, baby. Right here. Right here where anyone could see."

Embarrassment wells in Dean's eyes. He clenches his jaw, closes his eyes, and breathes deeply through his nose. He's not going to say no, though it's clear he desperately wants to. That same desperation is crawling through Sam, eager to watch his brother debauch himself. 

"Finish unzipping your jeans," Sam instructs him slowly. Dean does as he's told. Sam is only a foot away from him, and he can see a sliver of Dean's boxers, can see the hard, mouth-watering outline of Dean's dick. "Now slide your hand in your boxers. Wrap it around your cock." A tiny breath falls from Dean's lips. Sam's heart pounds faster. "Feels good, doesn't it baby? Now jerk yourself off."

There are few things Sam loves more in this world than making Dean jack off for him (making Dean ride him, making Dean sit above him with shaking knees bracketing Sam's head while he buries his tongue in Dean's fucked out hole, the smile Dean gets when Sam finally finds him a diner with apple pie, Dean - DeanDeanDean.)

No matter how many times Dean does it, he always becomes so flustered at the request, always blushes and presses the side of his face into the pillow or the car seat or the shower tile, always bites his lip and clenches his eyes until wetness wells fresh and pretty like dew on his lashes. There are times when Dean will lose himself, just pretend he's somewhere else or maybe that Sam isn't there, will just fuck his own fist and come. There are times when Sam will make him touch his nipples too, use his other hand to cup his balls or finger himself. Dean can barely handle those times, and Sam resists making Dean do it every day and night and second the way he sometimes wants. 

Dean's hand starts moving. The band of his boxers is stretched across his wrist as he fists himself. The movement stretches his dick straight, and Sam can see the outline of head poking against the fabric. Sam knows exactly what Dean looks like with his cock hard and curved towards his belly, knows what the slide of his ring against his slick dick looks like. This flimsy layer between them doesn't change that, but fuck if it isn't somehow hotter, not being able to see exactly how Dean's fingers are sliding along his cock, not knowing exactly where Dean's thumb is: if it's resting just below the head, if it's rubbing against the heavy blood thick vein along the base. 

"Yeah," Sam murmurs, utterly mesmerized by the outline of Dean's hand and cock. "Just like that."

Dean whimpers, a pitiful, delicious sound that makes Sam seriously considering shoving a hand down his own pants. There are things that get Dean off, just like anyone, and although he's not usually much for Sam's kind of dirty talk, there are little phrases, little praises, that will bring choked off little moans to the surface. Dean likes Sam's voice when it's deep and heavy and in his ear saying right there, like that, yeah Dean, yeah. 

"Take it out." Sam's voice is a rough whisper. Dean's hand doesn't stop moving, but he blinks, opening his eyes for the first time since Sam told him what to begin. "Take your cock out, baby. Let me see. Wanna watch you."

Dean does bite his lip this time. The discomfort swirls in Dean's face and Sam has to take a deep breath of his own to stop himself from sinking to his knees and swallowing Dean's dick just the way Dean likes. 

Dean uses the hand not around his cock to peel his boxers down. He stretches the band over his hand and his dick. Sam almost moans at seeing it, teary eyed red and so thick that girl who tried to pick Dean up earlier would have probably choked on it. Dean tugs the underwear and his jeans just past his balls, nestled between his trembling thighs, because he knows Sam likes to see everything. 

Dean's thumb (it was just below the head of his dick, and Sam feels a hot thrill) slides to his slit. He moans softly, gripping himself tighter as he thumbs the head. A breeze rustles an old newspaper and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin when he remembers where they are. 

"Keep going," Sam instructs. 

Dean licks his lips, another nervous habit that makes Sam's cock twitch, and slides his hand back down to the base again. 

Sam considers having Dean spit in his hand, tongue his palm and fingers until they're slick, but Dean is 16 and so sensitive, so receptive to things that make his body feel good even if his heart clenches up, he doesn't have a problem getting off with a dry hand. 

Despite Dean's discomfort, he's not going to have a problem getting off at all. Sam can see the pre-come drooling at the tip of Dean's cock. It almost glistens in the moonlight, making the fat head shine. Sam bites his own lip. He's definitely drinking his brother down tonight. Dean deserves a treat for being so good. Sam doesn't really deserve a treat himself; he hasn't done anything today except save a few college kids from a vampire, and Dean was the one who handled the machete. But he's going to reward himself with the heady taste of Dean's cock and come anyway. 

"Gonna come baby?" Sam asks when he can tell Dean is getting close. Dean nods jerkily, panting and dropping a bitten off groan when Sam steps closer. 

The door to the side of the bar swings open. Dean freezes immediately, hand falling off his cock and head spinning towards the door as his rabbit quick breaths quicken. Sam grits his teeth, eyes narrowed and anger flared as he turns to the door. He doesn't care who the fuck walks out of it, doesn't care if it's an entire gang of bikers or one of the young girls with too high heels that were dancing by the juke box earlier: he's going to punch whoever interrupted them square in the fucking face. 

No one is there. No one comes out. The door creaks before swinging back on its hinges. 

Dean lets out a relieved breath and sags against the wall. 

"Come on," Sam says, reaching for his brother's wrist. "You're not done yet."

Dean looks to the door again. Sam can see the protests die on Dean's plush mouth. But Sam...

"Come on," Sam says again. 

Closing his eyes, Dean grips his still hard, still leaking dick. Sam closes the few inches between them, pressing against Dean's side but making sure not to brush against Dean's cock. He kisses Dean's jaw and watches Dean jack himself out of the corner of his eye. 

Suddenly, the most brilliant idea he's ever had springs to mind. Pressing a kiss to Dean's ear, Sam whispers, "Pull your underwear back up."

Dean blinks at him with glazed eyes. "What?" he asks. Not arguing, just confused. 

Sam kisses him on the mouth, sweeping his tongue through Dean's open lips. "Tuck yourself back in, but don't stop."

Apprehensive and trembling, Dean does as he's told. He makes a pained little noise when he has to confine his hard cock to his boxers again. Sam's own dick twitches in sympathy (maybe more in frenzied, hungry lust, because Dean looks so uncomfortable and beautiful as he obeys his big brother without a word.)

"Keep jerking yourself off," Sam encourages. "Make yourself come."

Dean dips his head back against the brick, flushing as he realizes the mess Sam's after. Dean is going to spill inside his boxers, soak the front with his own come, then he's going to zip himself back up and spend the rest of the time traveling back to the hotel squirming in his own slick mess. Sam's own cock is aching and leaking just thinking about the wet spot that's going to form in Dean's pants and the way Dean is going to pout at the gross discomfort all the way to the room. 

A creak echoes like a crack of thunder down the alley. They both look to the door, which is barely hanging open. 

"Don't stop," Sam orders when he feels that Dean has stopped moving. 

They turn back to each other at the same time (years of living and hunting and fucking have made them so in sync it would be creepy if it weren't so comforting.) Another creak spills into the alley. Dean tries to look towards the door again, but Sam brings his hand up to Dean's jaw, forcing his baby brother to hold his gaze. 

"You're so close," Sam murmurs. "Bet you can come before whoever's holding that door open gets out here."

Dean wants to say that he can't, wants to ask Sam not to make him try, but he just breathes, "Sam," and drops his forehead against Sam's chest. 

"You can do it baby," Sam assures him. He moves his own hand to rub at the drooling head of Dean's cock through his boxers. Dean moans and twitches his hips closer. "I'll even help you out. Come on baby. Dean. Come on."

The door edges open a bit more. Sam can hear voices muffled by the music. It's a man's voice, telling someone behind him to come on as the second person (a girl, Sam thinks) continues shouting happily back into the bar. 

Dean's hand is moving bullet fast. He's bucking his hips in a wild pattern, jerking his hand and body in desperation. Sam can see how badly he's trying to come before whoever is leaving the bar sees him slutting it up so goddamn pretty by the bar dumpster. He considers his options, and finds a spark of mercy in the rolling waves of arousal saturating his skin. 

He moves his palm in a circle over the cotton covered head of Dean's dick, then leans in, licking the arch of Dean’s neck. The expanse between his shoulder and his jaw is so sensitive and he always melts for Sam's tongue. 

Dean moans low into Sam's chest. Sam's skin soaks in the noise, revels in it. Sam glances down quickly so see Dean's come spreading blossom into a deliciously dirty stain. The damp spot spreads as Dean jerks himself through his orgasm. 

"Fuck." They both pant it at the same time, breathless. 

Sam laughs a little, dazed like he always is when he watches his beautiful baby brother fall apart. He covers Dean's body with his, sliding both hands to Dean's neck as he kisses him deeply. 

"So good for me," Sam murmurs when he pulls back. His lips move against the corner of Dean's trembling lips. "So hot. God, Dean, baby, you're so hot." 

He kisses Dean again, barely noticing when Dean tenses or when the door to the bar finally slams shut. 

"Hey," a perky voice calls. 

Sam's tongue is deep in Dean's mouth, and he's content to leave it there and ignore the voice until a deeper, masculine voice says, "Ya'll looking for some company?"

Sam drags his tongue from the burning cradle of Dean's lips. He turns slowly to find the couple from earlier watching them with heated smiles. 

Dean is shaking against him. He keeps his head buried, turning so his cheek is laying over Sam's heart and his eyes face the opposite side of the alley. One of Sam's hands slide to the back of Dean's hair, soothing. 

"I think he made it pretty clear he wasn't interested," Sam says. He doesn't lower or harden his voice, but he knows the look on his face leaves no room for discussion. People generally don't find Sam very intimidating, despite his size and bulk (Dean says it's the floppy hair, makes him look like a puppy, or his boyish dimples that make him look all of 6.) Sam consciously imbues his gaze with anger, though, and the couple backs off. 

"Hey man," the guy says, throwing his hands up. "Not looking for any trouble. Come on babe." 

"But..." the girl begins to whine. "That mouth."

The guy sighs, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and steering her towards the parking lot. "I know babe. I know." 

Sam waits until they've stumbled down the alley before pressing a kiss to Dean's forehead. 

"The bad people are gone now," he whispers into Dean's hair. 

"Oh fuck off," Dean mutters, no heat to the words. He sounds tired. 

When Sam gets a good look at him, peers into his eyes and his soul, he can see the exhaustion running ragged. 

"Hey," Sam says softly, searching Dean's face. "Let's get you back to the hotel, okay?"

Dean nods. He leans back against the wall. Sam takes a good look at the wet spot in Dean's boxers. He wants to sink down and lap at it, suck the taste of Dean's pleasure through the fabric, but he can feel Dean shivering. Sam's pretty baby is cold and hungry and tired, and it's Sam's first job to take care of him. Taking him comes second. 

Sam does run his fingertips over the mess, pressing the cooling fabric and come against the heat of Dean's cock. Dean hisses softly. Sam zips and buttons his pants back up.

"You did so good," Sam tells him as he tangles their fingers together, pulling Dean from the alley wall and more firmly onto his feet. "You're such a good baby boy."

"And you're such an asshole," Dean huffs, cheeks still flushed as his bravado begins to come back to him. He's looking at Sam's shoes when he speaks. 

Sam smiles and wraps his arm around Dean's broad shoulders. 

"I'll drop you off at the hotel," Sam tells him as they head towards the Impala. "I'll grab some food while you shower. I think I saw a McDonald's not too far from our place."

At the mention of Mickey D's, Dean looks up. "You're getting me some of those apple pie things."

"Thought you hated those. They're not, as I recall you saying, real fuckin' pie." 

Dean shrugs. The movement glides under Sam's arm. It's such a simple thing, but it feels so good to have Dean under him. It always does. 

"Yeah. Well. It's better than nothing." Sam can see him grimace in the corner of his eyes as walking brushes his dick against the mess in his boxers. Flushing, Dean adds, "You're getting me like four of them."

"Okay," Sam agrees, feeling indulgent, as they near the car. 

Dean slides out from under his arm to take the passenger seat. They're on either side of the Impala, each reaching for the door handle, when Sam smiles and adds, "Baby."

Dean meets his eyes. "Ass," he mutters before sliding into his seat. 

It's the only way they can say I love you, I hate you, I'll always protect you and I'll never leave you. It's Dean's way of calling Sam out on his bullshit, of reminding Sam that he'll never forgive him for what he does but he'll never run away either. It's Sam's way of telling Dean he's Sam's entire world, of reminding Dean that Sam's the oldest and the one who makes the rules. 

It's Sam ways of reminding Dean, every day, that Sam will never let him go.

Dean squirms in his seat the entire way to the hotel.


End file.
